Trojans
by protected-silverspoon
Summary: What could you call me anyway? A medium? A clairvoyant? A schizophrenic, most people would say. I thought the point of moving to Los Angeles was to get away from the voices inside of my head, not to become infatuated with one. Maybe they're right. Maybe I am just crazy Claire.
1. Chapter 1

The second I even glanced at the house, I felt it. The malice, the heartbreak, the fear, the happiness, and most of all, the darkness. It was like there were twenty lost souls clinging to me, and the familiar weight on my shoulders already weighed me down from the distance. I felt the presence of the oldest members to the youngest, all of them shouting and crowding my head. Sighing with heaviness, I rolled my eyes and continued reading. I thought the point of coming here was to get _away_ from the voices inside of my head.

"Home, sweet home!" Aunt Cynthia's voice rang out in fake delight as we pulled into the driveway. The large SOLD sign swung loudly despite the light breeze. George snorted beside me at the exclamation and I smirked at his cheekiness, causing Cyn to glare at us in disapproval.

I shoved George and nodded towards the heaping pile of luggage scattered throughout the van. He scoffed at my laziness, but didn't protest further as he began unloading. With Cyn talking and talking as she usually did, and George listening to her as he usually did, they didn't notice as I strayed away to wander the yard.

Without even stepping into the house, I felt the presences nearby. From under the gazebo, from behind the door of the basement, from everywhere. I began humming loudly trying to drown out the voices that kept piling and piling in my head, continuing to search the premises. I could tell that nothing _too_ malicious lingered here (well, not malicious anymore), but plenty of sorrow and heartbreak.

Just like me, right? I laughed bitterly at my own joke.

It wasn't too long before the scenes came. The closer I stepped towards the backyard, the more I felt pressure on my shoulders. The first one I saw was a woman lying on the porch leading into the backyard with her face smashed in by the shovel dropped beside her. I furrowed my eyebrows in confusion and looked at the gazebo.

"Hello," a deep voice greeted behind me.

I turned swiftly. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Sadistic smile. I narrowed my eyes in suspicion. His grin became even wider.

"Hi?" I asked, struggling to be polite. I never was good with people my age. "And you are...?"

"Michael," he said. I could tell he knew about me and I kept myself guarded, knowing that there was something about him that screamed at me to run. He continued when I didn't respond. "I just wanted to greet our new neighbors."

I felt a shiver at the same moment he glanced quickly toward the window, almost in anticipation. I nodded slowly, giving an awkward smile. "Well. Hi."

He would be cute, you know. If it wasn't for the fact that I felt the evil radiating off him.

"Michael!"

I swiveled around quickly. An elderly woman appeared, rushing towards us. She gave me a chilling glare and pushed past me to talk to her grandson, I assumed.

"Hi, mom."

Or maybe not. It's not like she was seventy years too old to have a kid.

"You know you're never supposed to go into the neighbor's house, sweetie!" she laughed uncomfortably toward me and glanced at the window nervously. I exchanged a glance with Michael, who still had a grin plastered on his face.

"Well, just wishing our new neighbors luck," he said laughing and the woman reprimanded him sharply. She shared a forced grin with me in awkwardness before turning away and speaking to Michael alone.

"Claire!" I heard from the house.

I turned for a split second at my name, but when I turned back, the two were already more than halfway toward their house. Michael was still giving me the same grin from earlier and gave a wink before I turned away. I shivered in unease. George ran out from inside and pulled me into the house excitedly. I could feel the protests of our presence from the previous and unfortunate tenants of this house. "Look at this place, it's amazing!"

Rolling my eyes and murmuring absentmindedly, the stairs creaked with anticipation of our arrival. The house wanted us but it's tenants surely did not. George kept babbling on and on about how amazing the architecture was and how antique the stained glass windows were while I wanted nothing more than to explore the history of this house. As I was staring at the chandelier fixture beside the stairs, an instant flash of a hanged man swung before it disappeared.

I smirked. Call me sadistic, but I already knew that I was definitely gonna like it here.


	2. Chapter 2

I sighed heavily. Today had been a long day; from enrolling into Westfield to suffering from migraines (which, to be honest, I used as an excuse out of class), to trying to suppress the voices that crowded my head. It was especially infuriating hearing the same requests made by different voices over and over at every second of the day. All I wanted to do was trudge up the stairs and crawl into bed.

But, of course, simplicity was too much to ask for.

"Hi?" I hadn't meant for the questioning tone, but I couldn't help the slight inclination of my voice. I tried hard not to let someone else's flashback push into my mind about the history of the room and focus on the random stranger caught rifling through my drawers. He spun around quickly and stared at me for a long while. There were a few moments of awkward silence before he realized that I was talking to him.

"Oh, me?" he asked confusedly. I rolled my eyes and kept myself from a sarcastic retort. He was taller than me, tousled blonde hair in contrast to my pitch black mess, piercing dark eyes opposite my dull blue. He reminded me a lot of the boy next door, because they both had a handsome face that seemed innocent but their eyes screamed _guilty_.

I nodded slowly and uncomfortably before clearing my throat.

"Do you usually come into people's rooms unexpectedly or...?"

He shrugged and gave a sheepish grin. "Sorry. I'm Tate."

"Claire," I replied, still aware of the elephant in the room, "Nice to meet you, I s'pose."

His lips curved into a half-smile, amused by my sarcasm. "Yeah, I guess."

Despite my better judgement and understanding of the common saying '_Looks can be deceiving',_ I decided that at the moment, sleep was more important than questioning Tate, the cute boy that welcomed himself to my room and looked through my things. All I was thankful for was that I wasn't present when he looked through my underwear drawer.

I managed to catch myself before I collapsed on the floor with fatigue and sat on the bed, Tate following suit. I didn't even have enough energy to push him off or question why he was so _weird_. He wasn't even uncomfortable with the fact I caught him pillaging my things.

After concluding that he couldn't possibly be much of a threat to me, and if he tried to pull a move, I could have him sprawled on the floor in five seconds flat, I made idle side conversation with him, mainly getting to know each other. I learned that we were both seventeen, he apparently dropped out of Westfield, and that he lived next door, although he seemed awfully uncomfortable when I commented on how he and Michael looked similar. He learned that I had recently moved from San Francisco, which, besides the climate change, wasn't much different from Los Angeles and that, every year, I devoted myself into learning a new hobby.

He snorted when he learned that this year was knitting and made a snide comment about knitting and old age. He was promptly pushed onto the floor.

"So..." I drawled tiredly after a few hours, eyes drooping and not up to conversation anymore, but also not knowing how to politely ask him to get the hell out.

"So..." he repeated, adding a cheeky grin, obviously not even close to tired. I rolled my eyes, deciding that he wouldn't take the hint. I maneuvered around him to get comfortable, and accidentally brushed my hand against his.

Big. Mistake.

My body convulsed and my eyes rolled into my head, immediately thrown into a hallucination.

Images of his mother, morbidly alcoholic, and her neglect toward him and his siblings. His previous residency at the house and the darkness that consumed him, leading to many deaths, including his mother's boyfriend, many of the house's previous tenants, and even actions that led to his own death. The pain he felt being all alone, regretting his decisions, mourning the loss of a loved one. Every single tiny detail that he encountered in his life and even his after life flashed before my eyes as if it were my own.

I sat up gasping for air at the end of the flashback, seeing him hovering over me with a concerned look. Putting my head in-between my legs, I tried to regain my composure as I felt the weight on my shoulders dig in deeper. I pieced the memories together and understood why he was so surprised that I even saw him earlier.

He was dead.

**A/N: Hi guys! Sorry for such a short chapter, but I needed a way to introduce Tate and to sort of give more insight on what Claire can do. I don't really like making author's notes, but I just really needed to let you guys know that I'm so thankful for your guys's support. Without you, I would have no motivation to write this haha. Special shout outs to SheBangBang and bex-the-awkward-panda-gurl for their wonderful comments! Love you guys!**

**Stay happy and see you guys next week :D  
**


	3. Chapter 3

Tate walked down to the basement in mute despair. A _medium_? He couldn't put it together. He spent the whole night talking to her and when he 'accidentally' touched her, she cringed away from him for the rest of the night.

"So, you're dead," she had said. He didn't know how to respond and he was sure the expression of confusion on his face was less than flattering. She waved off her capabilities off as nothing more than _just a medium._

"You said you were a knitter!" he accused.

And she replied, cheekily of course, "And you said you were alive, so I guess we're both disappointed, right?"

Then she told him to leave and so he went away to his corner of the basement, where he was met with many disapproving looks from everybody to Ben Harmon to Moira O'Hara. He was rejected _again_ and he had just met her. He felt the anger boiling up in him, the darkness consuming him, and the growing resentment toward the house. In his small corner of the basement, he yelled and cried and shouted but no one could hear.

* * *

It had been two weeks and still there was no sign of Tate. Then again, I was the one that told him to go away in the first place. But this house was getting lonelier and lonelier and the silence more unbearable with each passing day. I found myself unconsciously wandering the house, not realizing I was even looking for anyone in particular until I caught sight of someone unexpectedly and they run off. So far, I had seen a weeping blonde woman, a presumably gay couple arguing, and a quiet nurse sitting and studying a book in the corner before they all fled and disappeared.

I couldn't help but laugh at the sheer irony. The ghosts were the ones afraid of the human. Even Moira was uneasy around me. More and more often did I see young Moira, and more of her true self. Most likely because the lack of a male presence in the house. George was constantly out of the house, obviously. He was a normal child who had school and friends and anything social. Me, on the other hand...

Of course, I couldn't blame George. He deserves all the good things he gets, especially because he has to deal with me enough at school. People couldn't keep their mouths shut ever since I walked into school that first day and passed out.

I sighed in disappointment. My "episodes" had been coming more frequently, much to Cyn's concern. She was considering taking me out of school again, to which I adamantly protested. Without school, there was no way I would get out of the house and she might as well just put me in an asylum already.

One day, I came home from school and found a teenage girl rifling through my albums, just like Tate when I first met him. She gave me a look of absolute resentment, and I just rolled my eyes. She seemed familiar, from one of the many visions I've had of this house, but I couldn't remember which. All I knew for sure was that she was dead and that she killed herself.

"In case you forgot," I sneered as she began walking out, "This is my room now."

And with that, I slammed the door in her face before falling on the ground with another episode. When I finally snapped out of it, I woke up in bed with a bundle of wildflowers beside me. I smiled a little at this.

Feeling his presence, I called out to him. And for the first time in weeks, I had a friend again.

I couldn't put a finger on it, but there was something about Tate that pulled me to him, regardless of what I knew of his past. He was a psychopathic murdering rapist with as much charisma as the Devil himself, and all I wanted to do was give him a hug.

"Tired?"

I groaned in reply. I felt the weight shift on the other side of the bed and turned to face him.

"So, are you still mad at me?" he pouted. I inwardly rolled my eyes at how easily I wanted to squeeze him into a hug.

"No," I sighed, "But it's not up to me to forgive you."

"What am I supposed to do, Claire?" he asked in frustration, "Apologize to every single soul in this house? 'Hey, sorry for stabbing a poker into your ass and suffocating your boyfriend with apples! Hope we can be friends!' or 'Sorry I raped your wife and fathered the Anti Christ, but at least your daughter killed herself and I didn't kill her, even though I drove her to it.'"

I winced in disapproval of his bluntness, which caught his attention. He gave me an apologetic look and scooted closer toward me. "Look, it isn't that easy Claire. We've been stuck in this house for decades. If the time for forgiveness came, it would have already happened."

"Maybe," I began, "Maybe they just... They need to see change. Don't kill anyone, or rape anyone, or make someone go insane, and they'll think, 'Hmm, maybe Tate's a good kid after all.'"

"Well, maybe I'm just not a good kid," he muttered. I gave him a withering look to which he shrugged.

"Everyone has good and bad, Tate. You're just a good guy who made some bad decisions."

He stared at me for a long while, trying to decipher the meaning in my words. "You know," he finally said, "You're the first person I've ever talked to in the history of this house that I haven't had to lie to."

I shoved him playfully and rolled my eyes, trying to hide the blush in my cheeks. _Oh Claire_, I thought to myself as we carried on our conversation, _what are you getting yourself into?_

**A/N: I'M SO SORRY GUYS. I KNOW IT'S BEEN SO LONG! To be honest, school has just been kicking my ass lately. But! Never fear, summer is coming and that means more free time to write. Hopefully, you guys aren't too mad and stick around with me and this wonderful adventure. Thanks for your support and patience!**

**Stay happy and see you guys soon! :D**


	4. Chapter 4

Can I be honest and admit that this was killing me? Well, not literally, of course, but living in this house, what could you expect?

...Yeah. That was a bad joke, sorry.

I couldn't put my finger on it, but all this "improving" that Tate was doing was working really well, and Violet wasn't the only one noticing it. After every little thing I taught him on how to be a less blood-thirsty murderer, he would come back the next day, energetic and hopeful and bursting with something new to tell me.

"Claire, you won't believe..." or "Violet is actually..." And for some reason, it _bothered_ me. A lot.

I know, it's selfish of me, but I felt like the one friend I made in this stupid, cursed house was being ripped away from me. I mean, _I_ am the one who accepted him, murders and all. _I'm_ the one that fixed him. _I'm_ the one that didn't abandon him.

But no matter how much I hated it, every time I opened the door to see his fucking dimpled smile, I couldn't help but let him in and hear all about the newest exploits with the _amazing, _and _beautiful_ Violet.

And I still had not even met the girl. All I knew was she was this supposed angel that had rescued Tate. Call me bitter, but wasn't _I_ the one that rescued him?

It's dumb, I knew that much, but all the idleness that had accompanied me as my family settled into the house had been getting on my last damn nerve. Aunt Cyn worked and George had friends, so what could I do but venture the house?

There were parts of the house that I didn't have the strength to enter. For example, the basement. I felt too many presences calling me at once and every time I neared the hallway, I would see the familiar white spots crowding my vision. Honestly, if I really wanted to, I would push through the pain, but with all that darkness, I would explode by the time I reached the door. I knew that all the residents of the house were avoiding me, and I could feel the malice lingering in every room.

They were just scared that one touch would reveal all their dirty secrets.

I ventured upstairs toward the rooms that had yet to be filled with purpose and found a barren room with torn wall paper and creaky floor boards. And then I saw it as a baby room. One that was never used. And I cried as I saw.

I woke up when Moira found me, her face still distorted between the young and the old version of herself.

"Claire? Mrs. Langdon from next door is here to see you." Her face was concerned but I could feel the anxiety emanating from her. The voices screamed, _whore_ and for a split second, I saw only the young maid in the short dress staring at me with disapproval before she became distorted again.

Interesting.

I got up with a beaming smile, knowing that a little piece of Ms. Moira's puzzle had been unlocked without me even touching her, before bounding down the stairs to meet the woman. The voices increased with each step as I descended. Hatred, anger, resentment, betrayal.

_Get her out of here!_

_KILLER! THIEF! BITCH!_

When I walked into the kitchen and it was like all the voices stopped and held their breath when Mrs. Langdon came into view. Cigarette in hand, dress straight out of the 1950's with a hairdo to match, the woman was an enigma. Her presence was everything but the caring grandmother.

She smiled when she saw me, but I saw the intent in her eyes. She wanted something, but I couldn't tell.

"Hello," she drawled in a slight Southern accent, "Claire, is it?"

I smiled politely, not wanting to get on her bad side, and nodded. She blew out smoke into my face. Then I saw Tate standing behind her, shaking with fury, covered in blood from head to toe, before he disappeared.

"Well, it's nice to meet you. I'm Constance Langdon, I live next door. I believe you met my son, Michael."

I could feel every bit of artificiality dripping out of every word she spoke but I kept my composure as she rattled on about her significance and affection toward the house. All of which I knew was completely imagined or tweaked according to what I saw about her from Tate.

"I was wondering if you could stop by some time, so my son and I can get to know you better. I know it must be hard being all alone in this big house all the time."

Ding ding ding, there it was. The favor she needed. What she wanted was an inside man to tell her all about what was going on in this house. Tate came back, this time, looking back to normal. He shook his head at her proposal but I still smiled at the woman.

"Well, of course, Mrs. Langdon. Any time."

My ass. Like hell was I gonna go visit the Anti-Christ and his psychotic grandma/mother. She gave her little smirk and said goodbye before seeing her way out as if I was the one that came to see her.

When I got back to my room, Tate was already there, hands quivering with fury. He was different. This wasn't happy-go-lucky, the-afterlife-is-getting-better Tate. His eyes were pitch black and I couldn't even hear the voices over the ice cold fear that poured down my body. I couldn't even _feel_ Tate's presence. It was like something different was standing in front of me.

So when he reached out his shaking hands, I screamed before everything turned black.

**A/N: Um, hi... I know. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Life just progressively sucked as the days went by and then summer was gone and then writer's block kicked in and ugh. I don't know, I know there's no possible way to make it up, even with this long-ish chapter, but I'm sorry! I'll try and update more.**

**I understand if not a lot of people are still reading but hey, if you are, you're the best! T.T I'm sorry again.  
Btw, I'm sorry for the lack of fluff in this chapter, I felt that the drama needed to kick in so... YEAH! :D**

**Stay happy and I'll (maybe) see you guys soon!  
**


	5. Chapter 5

It was different. Usually what happened first was the static, like an idle channel's white noise on an old television screen. But this time, I felt nothing physical. Not the convulsions. Not even Tate's hands clasped around my neck.

But at the same time, I felt everything. I felt raw emotions, thoughts, and in such a whirlwind that it was hard to distinguish what was mine and what was his. Nothing had constricted and engulfed my body stronger than the pure emotion I was entangled within. But the most prominent was the fear. Mainly because it was such a new, terrifying addition to my "affliction" that I had no idea how to handle it, or myself.

All I heard was Tate. I felt his pain, his angst, his longing, his rejection. All in the palm of his vice like grip. I heard the screams of hatred for his mother, his father, and most importantly, himself. Even in the moment, I heard the internal fight he had to stop and let go, but the inability to overcome the darkness that so often consumed him.

Then I heard her. First, it was like a tiny ringing in the back of my head. I thought it was a sign of the end, the ringing of life being wrung out of me. But I slowly became more conscious of the physical again, and of Tate's hands around me. The ringing became a scream. And it was her.

Violet screamed. She screamed his name. She screamed for mercy. The ringing came back, this time deafeningly, but all I could do was stare at the black depths of Tate's emotionless eyes.

Then I dropped to the ground, gasping for air.

"Violet, I-"

"I thought you changed, Tate. But you're the same sick sociopath you were ten years ago."

And just like that, I lost myself in the darkness.

Honestly, I hadn't passed out so many times in the past two years alone as much as I had in the past two months of living in the Murder House. But then again, when had I ever been so closely surrounded by this many souls since my parents?

I woke up in bed and Tate was still there, sitting beside me and staring at a single dandelion as if it were the most pitiful thing he'd seen.

"You're gonna burn a hole into that flower," is what I had meant to say. What had really come out was a slightly croaked sound before a fit of coughs.

The first thing I noticed when he handed me the water was his eyes. In my sleep, the darkness that had been in them haunted me. It was nothing but dead, cold, pitch black. Now, I could feel the warmth and concern emanating from his brown-eyed stare.

"Claire, I don't even know where to begin," he stumbled over his words, struggling to find the right way to approach it, "I'm sorry. I can't believe... I just let myself lose control. I took it out on you. I know it's not an excuse. It's just that it's been over ten years since I saw that bitch and in that time, she took my kid, murdered-"

I opened my mouth to reassure him but ended up coughing again. Moira came in this time, probably having suspecting my consciousness from downstairs, with a bowl of clam chowder and another glass of water. She regarded Tate with a withering look of disapproval before addressing me.

"Claire, would you like to be alone?" She gave a pointed look toward Tate, who didn't acknowledge her jab other than looking at me with nothing but fear. I could feel his anxiety swelling up as if it were my own, seizing up until I felt paralyzed. The fear of rejection. _You're all I have in this godforsaken house_.

I turned toward Moira, who in this moment took mainly on her older form, smiled slightly and shook my head. She responded with a look of weariness and unease, but nodded in understanding before reminding me that Aunt Cyn wouldn't be home till midnight.

When she left, Tate turned to me again, giving me a sheepish smile before extending the small flower to me. "I couldn't really get you a bouquet of roses or anything special like that, but I found this dandelion and hoped you'd appreciate the thought?"

I couldn't help the grin that stretched across my lips at the look of pure anxiousness that came across the face of this boy that nearly murdered me.

**A/N: So uh... hey hi hello. I'm terrible. I know. I'm sorry. What can I say? Life's kicked me in the ass, and my junior year of high school came and went before I knew it.  
I hope I'll be back soon though, lovelies. I say that every time, but I'm cooking up something for this plot.**

**Till next time, stay happy**


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